she's singing to me, glory
by viansian
Summary: Ancient Rome!AU. Clarke's a senator's daughter, Bellamy's a gladiator, and they may as well be Rome's Romeo and Juliet.
1. Chapter 1

Chpt. 1

**(A/N I watched like 1.7 episodes of spartacus in high school. other than that, I know jack shit about ancient rome. either way, we gonna have fun. let's roll. )**

The sun was beating down harsh and hot and the streets were uncannily quiet as Clarke sprinted through the roads of Rome.

Men and women wandered the marketplace and vendors called out from booths as she moved past them, but the sea of bodies was less thick than she was used to, allowing her to move much more quickly than expected. The cobblestone road radiated heat through her flat shoes, and before she knew it, a huge stone building emerged into her view.

The Colosseum.

No doubt most of the people that would be crowding the market were at the games instead. As she slowed her pace and tried to steady her breathing, she reached around her shoulders and pulled a small shawl up over her head, ducking down to avoid recognition by the guards.

"Woah, woah, woah, there," a guard stepped out at the entrance of the arena, blocking her path. "Where are you going?"

Smiling sweetly at him, Clarke batted her eyes and said, "To watch the games? Where else would I be going?"

He smiled, a toothless grin, and Clarke had to keep herself from visibly gagging at the smell of his breath. "And what is a pretty woman like you doing travelling all by yourself?"

Clarke's mind raced, trying to find a reason, any reason, for showing up to the area so late. A voice interrupted her thoughts, saving her the effort.

"Oh, let her in Dax," a woman guard growled. "What is that, the seventh girl you've harassed today?"

The guard's eyes broke from her's, looking at the red-haired guard. "Piss off, Monroe," he snapped back.

His distraction had given Clarke just enough time to sneak past him. Shooting the female guard a grateful look, she turned and pulled the shawl tighter around herself. She hadn't taken two steps into the area when it all hit her.

The sound. The smell. All of it.

The roar of the crowd rang in Clarke's ears as she pushed through the sweaty bodies. A man's scream pierced the air, and then was suddenly silent before the bloodthirsty yells of the masses surged forward again. The noise hit her like a wave, almost knocking her breath out of her. For a brief moment, she wondered why she was here, why she brought herself to such a barbaric place over and over again.

Her hand tightened around her bag, slung over her shoulder, and she gritted her teeth.

_Suck it up,_ she thought to herself. _You're not here for you. _

From between the heads of onlookers, her eye caught sand and blood and sword. And a head of curly brown hair.

So, he was still alive. That was good. Every time she heard a man's screams, she worried it was him, that she would catch a glimpse into the area just to see his body laying lifeless in the dirt. Worried that she would blink, and he would be dead.

Even from a distance, he was a fearsome thing to behold. A snarl was painted on his face, blood splattering his cheek and his chest. He must have lost his helmet somewhat earlier, leaving the sun to glint off of his curls. His dark skin was slick with sweat and she could already read the exhaustion in his figure.

It was going to be a hard night. Assuming he made it that long.

Something glinted behind him. A figure with a trident approached behind him. Clarke's heart caught in her throat. There was no way he would see it in time. Her mouth opened, and she thought for a second her lungs would fly from her mouth, two birds carrying a message to him, to protect him, warn him.

There was no way he would hear her. She was too far away. The crowd was too loud.

She made the decision in an instant. Raising her hand, she pulled her shawl down, revealing her bright blonde hair. The hot Roman sun hit it like a beacon.

He never ceased to amaze her, just how quickly he could find her in the crowd, in the chaos of everything. His eyes snapped to hers, and the expression on her face must have told him enough, because suddenly he was dropping to the ground, the trident driving clean through where his chest was moments before.

He swung, his sword slicing across the thighs of his attacker, and the man screamed, dropping to his side. In an instant, Bellamy was behind him, dragging the man to his knees and turning to face the north end of the Colosseum.

Emperor Thelonious was sitting under a small canopy on an outcropping, his harsh gaze looking down at the last two gladiators. Wells sat beside him, looking somewhat disgusted as he gazed at all the bodies littering the sand below.

A small smile passed Clarke's lips. Wells had always been somewhat soft when it came to the games. She had no doubt his father had forced him to come, offering some lecture on the "duties of the future emperor". Her shawl was quickly repositioned over her hair, providing a disguise before her childhood friend could see her. Along with everyone else, Clarke's gaze fixed on the emperor, wondering which he would grant: life or death.

Thelonious's hand raised; his thumb parallel to the ground for a moment of suspense before it slowly turned downward.

The crowd roared. Clarke's eyes darted back to Bellamy.

He masked his emotions well, but she could see the anger in his eyes, even if he managed to keep his expression blank. His mouth pressed into a tight line before he raised his sword and drove it into the space between the man's shoulder and neck.

A quick death. Somewhat painless too.

It was going to be a _very_ long night.

The man's body fell to the ground, lifeless, and Bellamy turned to the crowd and raised his sword. An unearthly cry fell from his lips and the onlookers echoed it, the whole arena shaking with the noise. Then he turned and began walking back towards the gate, towards the guts of the Colosseum, the place where men waited to die.

The place where she _should _be.

The crowd was chanting his name now, but he didn't look back, his focus set entirely on the gate. She pushed back through the crowd, running between the stone seating, brushing shoulders with strangers who smelled of wine. The earth was hard beneath her feet and she could smell the stench of decay and rotting flesh baking in the hot sun the closer she got to the area.

_How can people come here for fun?_ she asked herself, trying to reign in her disgust as the men and women around her laughed loudly. The blood, the smell, the _violence_. She hated it. She hated what their empire had become.

A tall archway stood before her, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her head, lifting the edge to cover her face. Glancing both ways, she made sure no one was looking at her before she slipped through the gates and into the depths of the Colosseum.

She was met instantly by the smell of blood and the groans of the gladiators.

Since she had arrived late, she had missed most of the earlier fights, and with it, the earlier injuries. Men laid on stone tables throughout the lower room. Some had sharp gashes on their legs, others had gaping wounds in their shoulders, sides, backs. One man was missing a leg.

Her eyes locked with his from across the room. He was sitting on a table, leaning forward. There was already a healer beside him, inspecting a large gash across his back, and she could see numerous cuts across his arms and legs. _Close calls_, is what he'd always refer to them as.

The healer he was with looked up and caught sight of her over Bellamy's shoulder. "_Viator_!" Jackson said, "You're here! Great! We need all the help we can get."

_Traveler._ That was what they called her here. She remembered when she had first arrived, rushing past the guards after a young gladiator had been gravely injured. She had yelled that she was a healer, and, thank the gods, Jackson had listened. They hadn't been able to save the boy; his wounds had been too deep. But she had impressed Jackson with her skills, and he had allowed her to return under the condition that they keep her identity secret.

"_Can't have people coming in here asking why I have a noble-born working as a healer with some of the most violent men in the empire,_" he had told her. _"You'll get me crucified."_

"Sorry, I'm late," she said. "Had some trouble getting past the gate guard." She dropped her bag to the floor before kneeling beside it, digging through to pull out fresh clothes and ointments she'd purchased at the market a few days before. "Who needs help?"

Bellamy looked like he was about to open his mouth when Jackson cut him off.

"Go look at Finn," he said. "He took an arrow in the calf and we're having trouble getting it out."

She nodded and grabbed the tools she needed, not missing Bellamy's perturbed look. Glancing around the room, she saw Finn wave his hand, catching her attention. He was leaning back on his elbows, his leg dangling off the edge of the stone table.

"_Viator_," he said, giving her somewhat of a rueful smile. "Got a bit of a challenge for you today, any chance you're up for it?"

She didn't grace his question with an answer, instead setting to work immediately. "I didn't know they allowed range weapons in the arena," she said as her hands worked deftly, wiping blood away from the wound, careful to avoid the broken arrow sticking out of his calf.

He gave a rueful smile. "So, did I. I think someone snuck it in. Luckily, he was a shit shot."

She motioned for him to flip over so he was laying on his stomach, his calf facing upwards to allow her a better look at his wound. "You're lucky this didn't go clean through your leg," she said, tenderly touching the muscle around the wound.

Finn winced. "I think that '_lucky'_ would imply I didn't take an arrow in the leg in the first place."

She offered a small smile. "They may have to start calling you Sandlimper instead of Sandwalker now."

"The gladiator with unmatched skills of stealth," he said through gritted teeth. "The only trace left behind is a dragging footprint in the sand."

That one pulled a small chuckle out of her.

Finn looked at her over his shoulder. His eyes held that look she knew so well. "_Viator_," he said softly. "If I were to ever get free…"

Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a sharp yell as she chose that moment to pull the arrow out of his leg.

"By the _gods_, _viator_!" he grumbled. "Give a man a warning!"

She flashed him a sweet smile, wrapping his leg with impossible swiftness. "Good as new," she replied, gathering her things. "_Sandlimper_ will have to wait another day. I'll check back in on it next week." She moved to the next table, ignoring the longing look she knew followed her.

So, it went. She treated three more men, some of them conscious enough to speak, some not. She was lost in the movements, her mind empty, her hands working almost by muscle memory when Jackson's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.  
"_Viator_! Can you go check if Bellamy's arm has stopped bleeding enough to bandage?" The head healer was tending to another gladiator, Sterling, if she remembered correctly, who had lost most of his left arm. She winced for a second, looking at the wound, wondering if he would make it through the night.

Bellamy's gaze was intense as she approached him. She tried not to meet his gaze as she grabbed a few gauzes, setting them on the table beside him. The cries of the gladiators had quieted, and she could see the light coming from the entrance of the room getting dimmer and dimmer as evening set in.

She reached up and pulled his hand away from his arm where he had been holding a dirty cloth to a large gash on his arm. His skin felt hot against her touch, his gaze burning into her. The silence hung heavy between them, each waiting for the other to say something first.

She waited until she felt as though the gods themselves would appear and chide them both for being so stubborn.

"You were distracted today."

"Fighting six gladiators at once will do that to you."

"It never seemed to be an issue before."

"How would you know, princess?"

Her hand swiped across his wound a little harsher than was necessary, an instinctual reaction to the nickname. He winced and she instantly felt bad. "Sorry," she muttered under her breath. For some reason she could never keep her emotions in check with him.

Silence. Again. She wondered if he could feel her heart pounding out of her chest. It sounded a thousand times louder in her own ears.

Of its own accord, her mind wandered back to her memories of first meeting him. It was when he was still building his name in the arena. He had taken on three tigers with two other gladiators. She remembered watching the horrifying vision play out. The three of them had taken out the first cat with relative ease, but the second two proved to be smarter than the rest. The two other gladiators, Miller and Finn, had been preoccupied with one when the second snuck behind them and pounced. Bellamy had sensed the beast and turned just in time to gut the animal from sternum to tail but had taken the beast's claws to his chest before it had died. She remembered rushing down the stairs to him, helping Jackson stem the bleeding from the deep, red cuts across his chest.

He had gasped out his friends' names. _Miller. Finn. Miller. Finn_. Over and over and over again. Each time he did she soothed him, promising him that they were fine, just waiting in the other room. She didn't know why she did it, but she stayed well into the night with him, long after Jackson had fell asleep across the room on a mirroring stone table. The nighttime stars were the only ones who heard her singing her mother's lullabies softly to him as he slept. She had snuck back home in the early hours of the morning, taking the back streets as not to be spotted. She thought her mother would've killed her had she not convinced her she had spent the night at Senator McIntyre's house with her friend, Harper.

"Thank you. For warning me in the arena."

His voice pulled her from her memories and back into the present. For the first time, she finally found the courage to meet his gaze. As soon as she did, she remembered why she so often avoided his eyes.

His face was that of a stoic warrior, a killer, a slave who knew his place. But his eyes, by the gods, _his eyes_. They brimmed with every emotion under the sun. Passion, anger, grief, lust. They were all there. All the time. The _intensity_ of it all was almost overwhelming. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

"I didn't even do anything." The words slipped past her lips, and she was ashamed of how breathless they sounded. How soft.

His next words confirmed her earlier suspicions. "Your face. It was enough." There was a pause, then a small, wry smile broke past his features. The expression surprised her. She was so used to stoicism and hostility. "If I didn't know better, _viator_, I'd say that you don't want me to die. You haven't started taking out bets on me, have you?"

The air came rushing back into her lungs like a tidal wave. She rolled her eyes. "Bets? On you?" she teased. "Never. Maybe on Sandwalker or Miller, but not you. You're too much of a wild card."

"All the more reason," he said. "It keeps things interesting. Makes the games all the more enjoyable."

Her hands paused as she wrapped the bandages around his arm, the stark white contrasting his dark skin, even in the low light. "Is that what the games are supposed to be," she said softly, her eyes locking in with his. "Enjoyable?" She remembered the anger in his eyes, the rage in the set of his shoulders as he walked out of the arena. Another life lost for the pleasure of the people.

He looked at her, the intensity in his eyes a fire hotter than the Vestal Flame. "Not for us," he said softly. She wondered if he knew she could hear the simmering rage behind his words. "Not for the men I killed today."

Her tongue was lead and she felt as though acid was dripping down her throat, burning her insides and tying her gut in knots. "Better them than you," she said softly.

"You don't get to say that, princess." His words were harsh, but his voice was mild.

She turned away as thought slapped. She knew he was simply referring to her status as an observer rather than a fighter, but still, the words carried all the more punch when she reflected on her true social status. She knew the emperor had implemented the games to pacify the masses' thirst for blood. To protect the noble-borns such as herself.

Suddenly, his fingers wrap around her hand, his strong, yet gentle grip pulling her palm away from the warmth of his skin. His movements were…almost tender. Soft, like the gentle lapping of a river upon a shore bank. Her eyes met his, and she saw something unrecognizable behind it.

"We do what we need to in order to survive," he murmured. "Whether that be fighting in the pits or sneaking away from our villas and highborn life to tend to wounded gladiators."

The color drained from her face. His gentle grip turned to iron as she tried to pull her hand out of his grasp. The fire in his eyes was back. That raging, white-hot flame that danced in his soul like Vulcan's blacksmith-fire.

"How did you know?" she asked, caught somewhere between the terror of being found out and the fascination with the man before her.

His brows pulled together before releasing her. "So, I was right," he said, more to himself to than anyone else. Then to her, "You don't move like the rest of us. Your motions are more precise. At first, I thought it was just because you weren't used to the pits. Then I thought you were from the south, maybe Athens or even Tarsus." He paused, his eyes raking up and down her body, as if assessing her in a new light.

She felt naked under his gaze.

"It was the way you talk," he finally said. "No slang. Clean. You must have been trained to speak like that." He leaned in for a moment, his lips uncomfortably close to her ear. "Trained to speak to the masses." He sat back and looked at her. "Am I right?"

Her nose scrunched, and her lips pressed into a thin line as she carefully thought out her answer. "You're not wrong," she finally said.

"Tell me, why would a woman be trained to lead the way you have?"

She raised her chin. "Why shouldn't a woman be trained to lead?"

A small smile flickered past his lips. A ghost of a laugh resurrected by her defiant attitude. "Fair point," he conceded.

He looked like he was about to say something when a voice broke the silence.

"_Viator!_" Jackson called. She glanced to see he was still with Sterling. "I need your help!"

She turned and began to move towards her mentor when a rough hand wrapped around her forearm, holding her back. When she twisted, she saw that he was standing now, his face uncomfortably close to hers.

"I guessed your secret, princess," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Don't you think I should get a reward?"

She was certain he must feel her heart pounding through her chest, through the space between them, and up against his bare sternum, against the scarred remnants of the injury that first brought them together. Her breath caught in her throat like a thousand insects blocking her airway as she tried to breath out butterflies.

"What kind of reward?" she asked, her own voice nothing more than a simple exhale. Her mind raced, wondering what he would ask for.

He tilted his head, like a curious boy. "_Your name,_" he breathed.

"_Viator! Now!"_ Jackson's voice broke the trance, and she jerked her arm away. This time he released it, allowing her to take a few steps back. Her thoughts were the waves of the sea, each crashing against the shores of her mind and receding before she had a chance to grasp them. Turning, she moved towards the head healer before stopping and looking over her shoulder.

He had not moved, his dark gaze still boring into her.

"Clarke," she breathed. "My name is Clarke."

She did not have the courage to meet his eyes again.

**(A/N comments are always appreciated)**


	2. Chapter 2

(A/N: that cpr scene tho am I right? Side note: viator means traveler, a ludus is a gladiator training school, and a doctore is the head trainer at these institutions. spartacus knowledge coming in handy.)

Bellamy's sword swung down hard, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the air harshly. With a flick of his wrist, he knocked Finn's sword to the side and stepped into him, slamming his shoulder against the boy's chest.

His opponent tumbled to the dust, the wind clearly knocked out of him. Breathing heavily, the dark-haired man didn't bother to follow through, instead offering a hand to his friend.

"You need to not plant your feet," he said as he pulled Finn back to his feet. "We won't ever be the strongest men in the arena. If we want to survive, we have to use this," he tapped his temple with his index finger, "and these." He dropped low and swung his foot out, swinging a circle to take out Finn's legs from beneath him.

But this time, the boy was ready. He let out a small shout and jumped, Bellamy's legs swinging through nothing but sand and dirt.

"Good!" he exclaimed, dropping his sword. His hands came up in defensive fists as he nimbly shifted his weight from one foot to another. His movements were sharp, precise. A light hit on Finn's shoulder. A tap on his ear. A duck as Finn swung at his head only to rise up as he surged forward, landing a softened uppercut in his friend's gut and swiping at his head. Before the younger boy could react, Bellamy had him in a headlock and was swinging him in circles as he clawed at his arms. A smile like a wolf baring his teeth and a harsh laugh escaped him as obscenities spilled from Finn's lips.

"Hey!" a gruff voice called. "Are you playing or training? You boys know I don't allow anything but focused preparation among my gladiators!"

The two friends separated immediately at their head trainer's words. Bellamy's eyes locked with Pike's, his spine straightening. "Yes, _doctore_," they said in unison, waiting until the trainer's gaze shifted away from them.

Finn elbowed Bellamy's side.

Bellamy slapped the back of his head.

"That's cute," a voice came from behind them.

"Shut up, Miller." Finn's voice held no animosity, and a small smile escaped Bellamy as he turned to see his friend.

The youngest gladiator gave a grin, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin. "Is it my turn to fight?" he asked with sarcastic anticipation. "The Sandwalker or the King of the Arena? "

Finn tossed his sword in the air. "I've suffered enough humiliation today," he said. "You have your turn."

Miller snatched the weapon out of the air and grinned. "The King it is."

Bellamy let out a sigh, shaking his head ever so slightly. The sun was hot and his body was slick with sweat. The wounds from the day before still ached, and he felt a small trickle of blood run down his arm where he had reopened a small scab. He crouched down, picking up the sword from where he had let it drop to the ground. His eyes found Finn's as his friend walked beneath the overhang of the house and into the shade.

"Always leaving me out to fend for myself, aren't you Finn?" he said.

Finn smiled. "Only because I know you can handle it."

His right hand tightened around the sword while his left dug into the sand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miller lunge forward. A flick of his hand and sand covered the air. He ducked and rolled.

He sensed a body moving where his own had been a moment before. Instinctually, he swung his foot out, the same move he had used on Finn moments before. This time it worked. Miller's foot caught on his calf and the boy went tumbling. He was on top of him in an instant, his knee on the boy's back and his sword to his spine.

"Too aggressive, Miller!" Pike called from across the training yard.

"You fucking suck," he muttered under his breath.

Bellamy laughed, not knowing if the statement was directed at their _doctore _or himself. He clambered off the boy and gestured for him to fight him properly, a smile still ghosting across his lips.

Their swords' song echoed across the yard, mixing in with the music of the countless other gladiators training. A block. A parry. A duck. Even a few punches. Bellamy had to admit; Miller had gotten good. He had come far from being the beaten boy slavers had dragged in from Carthage.

He still favored his left shoulder though.

Bellamy was just about to take advantage of his friend's weak point when Finn spoke.

"You missed out yesterday at the colosseum, Miller," he said haphazardly, leaning against the door frame in the shade. "Our favorite _viator _was there."

_Clarke. My name is Clarke. _

He didn't know how he missed the arc of the sword or why his movements were slower than they should have been, but before he was fully away or what was happening, he was jumping backward, and Miller's sword was slicing a long, thin cut across his chest.

The sword fell from the boy's hands as soon as he saw the blood. "Fuck, Bellamy!" Miller said, rushing towards him. "Shit, are you okay? I'm sorry."

Bellamy waved him off, inspecting the wound. It was shallow. Barely bleeding. More of a sting to his pride than anything else. "Don't be," he replied. "It was a fair hit." He gave a smile, assuring his friend that everything was fine. "All that practice with Sandwalker must have made me rusty. Not enough of a challenge."

"Well, that's just rude."

"Just the truth, Finn."

"Miller!" Pike's voice interrupted them again. All three men looked to see their trainer gesturing for the youngest gladiator to come. Miller shot Bellamy a nervous look.

The dark-haired man clasped him on the back. "Don't worry," he said softly. "He probably just wants to work on your form."

Miller nodded. "You sure you're okay?" he asked once more.  
Giving him a small shove, Bellamy replied, "I won't be if you ask me that again."

The boy shot him a smile over his shoulder before jogging to their _doctore_.

Bellamy picked up his sword and made his way to the shade, sitting on the ground cross-legged in front of Finn. His chest stung, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his arm and the ghost pains in the scars across his chest. It was moments like this that he realized just how much of a toll the arena had taken on his body. There had been a time he didn't feel like this, so broken, so tired, as though each breath made his limbs heavier and heavier. There had been a time, he just didn't remember when.

"You need to be more careful," Finn said quietly.

Bellamy didn't even have the energy to pretend not to know what his friend was talking about. More than that, he didn't have the energy to have this conversation. But he knew Finn better than he knew his own self these days, and if Finn wanted to talk about something, there was no way to avoid it. So, he simply chose not to say anything.

"The _viator_. You have a soft spot for her."

"You sure you're not projecting?"

He didn't have to turn to know that the Sandwalker was angry. The _viator_ (_Clarke_) was a sensitive subject between them, one he had often been careful not to bring up. He had seen gladiators favor the same woman before, and it never ended well. They had no say in when they killed, who they killed, or how their bodies were used. The little control each still held over his own lives was guarded viciously, and love was one of the few things that could turn a gladiator mad.

"This isn't about me," Finn hissed behind him. "This is about _you_ being reckless. All it takes is one man finding out and suddenly, every gladiator you're up against is taunting you in the ring. You've lost a lot of people a lot of money, Bellamy. You _know_ they're constantly on the lookout on how to take you down."

"It's not an issue, Finn," Bellamy said, his face expressionless as he gazed out at the gladiators training before him. His mind was in two places at once, both listening to Finn's words and examining those training before him. Riley's foot was dragging. Atom's posture was too tense. Derek was still favoring his left knee, the one that had been injured two weeks ago. Pike was watching Miller spar with Ethan. A swell of pride bloomed in Bellamy's chest as he saw the boy throw a handful of sand in his opponent's eyes and sweep his feet from under him.

"You won't think it's an issue until death is staring you in the face, Bellamy. You never do."

He stood, tearing his eyes away from the training yard and striding up to the Sandwalker until he was nose-to-nose with him, staring into his eyes, unblinking.

"It won't be a problem," he said slowly, "because we won't be here much longer. C'mon, Finn. Look around. We're legends. We've won hundreds of fights; they know our names in the streets. No one's been able to stand against us for a long time now. They can't hold us much longer, not without it looking like something suspicious. We're winning our freedom soon. I can feel it. And when we do, we're buying Miller and getting as far away from this place as we fucking can." He reached out his hand, "You with me?"

Finn's eyes looked into his, intensity and skepticism behind his brown eyes. Then he reached forward and clasped his friend's forearm. "You're just trying to save your own skin," he said, a smile dancing across his lips.

A grin broke across Bellamy's face. Maybe he would know life without sand and blood again.

"I always am, Sandwalker. Good thing I always end up saving you while I'm at it too."

"Tell me again what they're like." Raven flopped on the couch, a dreamy look in her eyes. "I can't believe you actually talked to them."

Clarke sipped her wine, trying to hide a smile as she sat in her room with her best friend. "They're just men," she replied. "Often men in pain when I see them. I don't know why you seem so fascinated by them."

"That's easy for you to say," the dark-haired girl replied, rolling her eyes. "You've _met_ them. I, on the other hand, have neither the connections nor the clout to sneak into _gladiator pits_ by myself, so your stories will have to satisfy me. So _spill_."

Clarke snorted, almost choking on her wine. "Okay, okay, okay," she said, placing the glass on the table and leaning forward. "What do you want to know."

"Tell me about the Sandwalker."

Clarke grinned. Of course she'd ask about him. "He's probably the most charming of the bunch," she said. "Kind. Outgoing. A little bit of a flirt. But…" she paused, hesitating for a moment. "But it's obvious that he doesn't enjoy it. The games, fighting. I don't think any of them do. They always are saying things like, '_if I leave_,' and '_if I ever get out_,' but so reverently. As if hoping for freedom is almost too dangerous." She paused, swallowing hard. "Raven, it's so heartbreaking."

Raven reached forward, her hand wrapping around Clarke's. "Then I bet they're all the more grateful to have you there with them," she said softly. "If there's anyone who could bring hope to such a tragic place, it's you."

A forced smile passed her lips. Bellamy's words echoed in her ears. "_You don't get to say that,_" he had told her. Was her privilege really so obvious? Gods, she hoped not. "I hope so," she said softly. Fighting to bring brightness back into her tone, she said, "I think you'd really like them. They really seem like kind people at heart."

The joy seeped back into Raven's face. "Finn, definitely," she said. "I hear stories about him from the colosseum guards and the girls who work in the ludus. They say he's compassionate, that he doesn't care for violence like most the other gladiators. But the King of the Arena?" she shook her head. "Clarke, I can't believe you even talked to him! He seems so terrifying. The girls at the ludus say they never even see him smile."

"He is somewhat of a brooding character, I will give you that," Clarke conceded with a laugh. "But he is clever. And intelligent. And honest." Her eyes shifted, making sure that no unwanted ears listened in. "He found out my true identity."

Raven gasped. "He didn't!" she exclaimed. "Clarke, you can't go back there. What if he tells someone?"

"He won't," she assured her friend. "What would he gain in doing so? Besides," she hesitated for a moment, "I trust him."

Raven raised her brow. "Clarke," she said, skepticism lacing her voice. "You can't be serious."

She felt herself bristle and fought to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. "I am!" she said. "He's not like the other gladiators, Raven. I can tell he hates the violence, hates killing men. It wears at him, exhausts him."

"You barely know him!"

At that, she had to blush. Her friend wasn't wrong. She really didn't know him that well. But still, something inside of her trusted him. He would not be cruel for the sake of being cruel. And besides, going to the gladiator pits as a healer was dangerous enough as it was. What would be the difference of one man knowing her name?

"Uh oh," Raven said under her breath, "quick, pretend that we're talking about something _other_ than your dangerous hobbies."

Clarke's eyes looked across the courtyard to see her mother walking into the villa, pale white toga wrapped tightly around her figure and her hair done in ornate golden braids. She must have just returned from the senate meeting at the palace. She looked frustrated; a nearly constant emotion etched across her mother's brow since she took the mantle of her husband after he was assassinated nearly four years back. Her swift stride brought her to the entrance of the house in moments, and before Clarke could form a cohesive thought, her mother was standing at the entrance to the terrace.

"Mom," Clarke said, offering a smile. She tried to mask the caution in her voice with happiness, her mind running a thousand miles an hour, reading the situation to recognize anything awry. "How was the senate today?"

Her mother did not answer her question. "Raven," she said sharply. "Go help Roma prepare the evening meal."

The two girls sat in shock for a moment, caught off guard by the older woman's harsh tone. Their hesitation clearly was not the desired reaction, because almost immediately, Abby snapped, "_Now!_" and Raven scrambled towards the door.

"Yes, Domina," she said. "Apologizes, Domina."

Raven's figure had just disappeared out of sight when Clarke turned to her mother, livid. "You can't speak to her like that," she seethed, anger seeping through every atom of her being.

"I will speak to her as I wish," Abby said coldly.

"She is a sister to me! And a daughter to you!"

"By adoption only. Not by blood."

Clarke's whole body was vibrating with anger, but her mother's gaze remained terrifyingly stoic. She hadn't seen her like this often, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered what the hell happened to cause this kind of behavior.

"You rejected another suitor."

Oh. That'll do it.

"Was Senator Cage not good enough for you?" her mother asked, anger and frustration permeating her own tone now. "Not attractive enough? Not wealthy enough? Not _powerful_ enough?"

"Not kind enough," was Clarke's short reply. "He is twice my age, and I already have heard the stories of how he treats his women servants. Plus, he owns the second largest ludus in Rome. I will not marry a man who profits on the pain of others."

"Then you will never find a man to marry."

"_Good_."

Abby let out a sigh, sinking into the recliner across from Clarke. Her hand ran over her face, and for the first time, Clarke noticed just how _exhausted_ her mother looked. Though to be fair, she had not looked rested since before Jake Griffin died.

"He was not an ideal match, that much I will admit," Abby conceded. "Somewhere deep in my heart I am relieved you turned him down. But I wish you would have _told me_ first, so I didn't have to find out about it when he was the _deciding vote_ on a law I was trying to pass in the senate."

Clarke bit her lip, a minutia of guilt passing through her for a moment. "The one lowering taxes for the poorest sectors of Rome?" she asked. Her heart sunk as her mother nodded. She had worked on that proposal for months. "I'm sorry," the blonde whispered. "I'm sorry, I should have told you."

Abby sighed and shook her head. "It's alright," she replied. "There was no guarantee he would've voted for it even if you _had_ said yes. It would be taking money directly out of the senators' pockets. I'm surprised it was even considered by so many in the first place."

"You could always talk to Emperor Thelonious about it."

Abby snorted. "Too many senators already resent the Griffin family's close ties with the emperor. If I use that avenue, my fitness to be senator will be questioned even more."

"It's already constantly questioned by the mere virtue of you being a woman," Clarke responded angrily, "even though you've passed more legislation in the past three years than some of those men have in decades."

A wry smile passed Abby's lips. "Such is the way of a woman," she replied. "Do twice as much for half the credit." She stood and sat next to Clarke, raising her hands to gently cradle her daughter's face between her palms. "We must use the gifts the gods have given us," she said softly. "Though sometimes those gifts do not translate as well for our calling." She pressed her lips together in a tight line, studying the blonde's face. "You should have been born a man, Clarke," she whispered. "You have so much to give. You are such a gifted being. Such a leader."

"There is nothing that I have that I cannot give," she replied. "You taught me that a woman can lead just as much as a man can."

"And I believe that," Abby said. "It's the rest of the world that needs to learn."

"Then we will teach them."

Abby laughed, a loud, genuine laugh. Those moments were becoming increasingly rare, and Clarke cherished each one. She beamed at her mother, and a semblance of the former tension dissipating like mist in the sun.

"Go." Abby waved her hand, shooing Clarke away. "Go find Raven and steal some sweets, or beads, or boy's hearts. Whatever it is you girls do."

Clarke leaped to her feet and planted a kiss on her mother's cheek before rushing out of the terrace, her eyes already searching for her friend.

"Make sure she knows I love her!" Abby called after her daughter.

"She always does!" Clarke shouted over her shoulder, her bare feet feeling the pleasant coolness of the marble stone as she ran.

Another day, another arranged marriage avoided.

_Let them try to tie me down,_ she thought to herself. _I will fly like a sparrow up into the clouds and when I return, they'll learn a bird's song is so much sweeter if she is free. _


End file.
